Reality vs Dreams
by Soncnica
Summary: Reality doesn't do dreams very well.
1. Sam

**A/N: I own nothing, all mistakes are mine and I am sorry for them. This is S1, sometime right after Jess died. I have one more story with kinda the same concept of reality vs. dreams and I will post that one as chapter 2.**

* * *

**TITLE: Reality vs. Dreams**

Dean taught him well. With all those stories of him bragging about banging the prettiest girl in school (there've been a lot of schools), or the captain of the cheerleading squad (there've been a lot of schools), or the girl living three rooms down the hall of their current motel (there've been a lot of motels).

Sam listened and learned, like a sponge absorbing information his brother provided. Dean used cars as a learning aid … and he was never disrespectful of cars … which meant he was never disrespectful of girls.

Cars weren't really Sam's thing, but he knew what Dean meant anyway.

-:-

He learned where to touch, where to lick, where to kiss, breathe in, breathe out, caress, push, pull … or where to only ghost his fingers over.

Where to press or where to be gentle.

_Be gentle, Sammy … a girls body 's like a car. Be gentle and she'll purr._

And Sam had been gentle, just not when Jess hadn't wanted him to be. When she said: "Come on, Sam. Let go. Comeoncomeoncomeon…"

And he had. He hadn't been rough, could never be, not with her, he hadn't hurt her but he had left marks all over her body and he had known, just known that she loved him even more because of that.

It had been passion and fire, lust and love; desire so strong, he hadn't known what to do with it half of the time.

And when Jess all but screamed out his name, he'd come apart and only the look in her eyes had been strong enough to stitch him back together again.

Until that was all gone. Turned to ashes and dust, memories that became untouchable no matter how much he struggled to reach out to them in the middle of the night.

-:-

"Come on, Sam. Wakey, wakey eggs and bakey. Dude I am starving."

"Mhm."

But what he really meant to say was_: 'One more minute. In dreams I can have her, almost touch her.'_

"Dude, we gotta go."

But dreams were just that … an almost in ones mind.

"'m up." he groaned.

"Awesome. Come on, breakfast, coffee, the road. What can be better then that, huh?"

_Jess. _

But life doesn't do dreams, it does reality.

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**The End. **


	2. Dean

**A/N: This is the last chapter. Enjoy.**

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Reality doesn't do dreams very well.

He realized that a long, long time ago, years and years ago, years that he doesn't want to even remember anymore, but knows that it was reality that crushed them.

He dreamed about having a family once, dreamed of having normal problems designed for normal people.

But reality changed them into _'my brother, my brother needs me'_ when he was still just a little boy.

-:-

And when he got older, he figured out, that when reality stomped on another of his dreams, it was easier to drink them down with beer or Whiskey or Vodka or whatever the closest liquor store had that was cheap and strong.

It was just easier to not fight it. Easier to just go with it. Easier to just swallow down the burning alcohol, than mourn for what was once again taken from him.

Because drinking himself into a state of _'I don't fuckin' care'_ made him forget - even if for just a little while. Even if for just a minute, forget, that his dreams ... were lost. Again.

-:-

And then he learned to dream small. Really small. Dream about his brother surviving. About his brother having a normal fucking life. Get old, have a family. Wife, kids, a home.

But reality pounded those dreams into a bloody mess as well.

Sometimes, he just couldn't win, no matter what.

-:-

He's puking his guts out - again - can feel the burn of Whiskey coming back up the same as when it went down. He had been numb for awhile, lying drunk on the bed listening to Sam type away on his laptop, looking for a hunt, probably, or maybe surfing porn. He smiles and gurgles and spits out more Whiskey mixed with fries he had for dinner. Sam surfing porn? Hilarious. He wishes, sometimes, that Sam would search for porn. He wishes Sam was "normal" like that.

He sighs.

Another dream crushed by reality. And now he wants to get drunk again, because obviously the alcohol is leaving his system if he's already able to feel his dreams crawling back inside his head, inside the nest they've build there so many years ago.

And they are hurting, hurting more than any injury he ever had; they always show him the things he had and lost or things that he is never, ever going to be able to have. All the things he had lost along the way. All the things that he craved to have a long time ago, but now knows he's never going to have.

But at least he has Sam. Has his brother who is alive, breathing and being the annoying little brother he's supposed to be. At least maybe that dream will never be crushed by reality.

Maybe.

-:-

While he's pushing his blunt fingernails into the white and cold porcelain of the toilet, he can actually feel his dreams sneaking past his defenses, past all those walls he'd build over the years to hold stuff at bay. Well, apparently the walls developed cracks somewhere along the way of his life, cracks that became big holes that swallow up his dreams like a child does candy.

Dreams of his mother. Dreams of his father. Dreams of Sam.

They are sneaky little bastards - dreams - come and go as they please. He wants to hunt them down and kill them - burn, stab, cut, exorcize, nail them to the floor and stomp all over them - but really, how will he do that, when he can't even do a simple thing like ignore them?

Sometimes, some days, when their "job" is just a little too much, they almost make him stop breathing in the nights and if he's lucky enough, his brother wakes him up so that he can breathe in that oh so much needed air. Air that he chokes on after opening his eyes, air that is never quite fresh, always heavy with something he's never able to figure out - maybe it's just the staleness of the motel room of the day.

Doesn't matter.

-:-

He's lying on the bed again. Hands crossed over his stomach, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes on the ceiling. His fingers are starting to itch again, they want to wrap themselves around a beer can or a Whiskey bottle and squeeze the last drop out of it. Just squeeze until the package will come apart and he with it.

His throat burns to feel alcohol, his stomach growls for it and his head pounds with the rhythm of it.

"'s just a hangover, man."

No. No, it isn't. Not just a hangover. It's reality crushing his dreams into powder - again - and it's gonna make him drink it all down as soon as he'll have a chance. As soon as possible, as soon as please, now.

But first … aspirin.

"Aspirin." The sound of his own voice scares the crap out of him.

"Here."

A bottle hits his stomach and makes him curl up. It's too heavy, everything just too heavy on him, in him, all around him.

"We hit the road in ten. You can sleep it off in the car."

Sleep? Sleeping is the last thing he wants to do right now. But at least he has his brother. At least he has Sam to wake him up.

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**The End **


End file.
